A slow opening at the City Hall cafe gave me a chance to sit for a few minutes with one of my customers and write up some Valentine cards. Valentine's Day suddenly becomes really fun when you've stumbled upon really beautiful vintage cards that were designed nearly a century ago. Never mind that I had no one in mind to give them to at the time of purchase. "Love heels", one of the cards was entitled-- the one that was cut into the shape of a ladies high heel shoe--, but love also wounds. Take that. I've been classically unlucky in love so far. I could go out of my way and actually try to find someone special, but I don't have the heart to put in such effort presently-- whether this lack of motivation stems from suspicion, defensiveness, fear, or some other deep, dark psychoanalytic well,...it is what it is. I will stumble upon the various threads of my fate just as I stumbled upon these beautiful cards.

And just as I purchased these ephemera greeting cards with no particular receiver in mind, I also purchased a bottle of sparkling cider with no one in mind to drink it with. I bought the cider because I tasted a sample of it at the grocery, and as it fizzled down my throat, it threw me back to summer days, to warmth and tranquility. And so I threw down 10% of my day's tips and purchased a bottle of this liquid summer, which now sits in my fridge awaiting to relieve a soul parched by a long winter.

Friday afternoon, 1/20/12: First Cupping

-that is, coffee cupping...location: the Warehouse
-pregame with Primo hoagies
-first, a taste of Pure Black, sweetened and once-pressed: top taste is undesirable; bottom taste is wonderfully grainy and all coffee; sugar is consistent from top to bottom; SN likes a punch in the face
-the demise of Robinson, our Haitian coffee ambassador: mob politics with reactionary, old men; we will dig deep into Haiti
-Beasts Ride Bicycles: A children's book ft. Bird Rider & Robusta Dude
-pizza: Naples vs Rome; semolina vs no semolina; chef vs. the 8th generation Russian pizza connoisseur
-where was the coffee spoon? (a) not a coffee spoon-- a drug spoon (b) in Serge's tool box; (c) not a drug spoon-- a pooper scooper; (d) Bryan stole it to clean up after his new dog (e) Bryan has Flyers tickets
-pods: ever-widening screens from 54 to 58mm in diameter; they are evolving, and so must we; new packaging-- silver and sleek
-redefining "direct trade": buying directly from the children who stick the parchment around each bean

The cupping itself was a neat experience. Elliotte, Ben and I-- three baristas who had never been to such an event-- sat side by side on the bench across the table from JP, while he stood like an eccentric professor, waving around his hands until one of his unusually thick fingers got sliced by his own Pure Black twist-off cap and began bleeding profusely. As casual as his manner was, he had the air of knowledge about him as he spoke. He was in his element, talking about a subject that he had spent hundreds of thousands of hours of his life thinking about, studying, breathing, creating, tasting, drinking, dreaming and doing. Eventually, most of the office staff drifted in and joined the meeting, hanging around the perimeter of the gorgeous wooden conference table, but not quite sitting at it. Even Tobin, the accountant, popped his head in for a brief moment to say hello.

After the cupping of the first Panamanian bean, the cups-- rounded, white bowl types-- were washed, redosed with the second El Salvadorian beans, refilled with boiling water, and re-aligned in a straight line down the long bench table. We steeped and slurped. The surprise was that, as light as the El Sal was roasted (lighter than the Panamanian bean), it was much more pleasantly citrus-y and smooth than the sharply acidic Panamanian bean. Part of the reason for this seemingly paradoxical result may have been the inconsistent grind level of the two beans. JP suggested a darker roast for the sharply acidic Panamanian bean; Chris, the roaster, disagreed with an immediacy and certainty that impressed me.

We fell into discussions with our neighbors. From the right side of the room, I caught a tip from Chris: slurp a spoonful of the Panamanian, let it sit in your mouth, and the orange-iness will hit you like a bus. It hit me suddenly that "citrusy" did not necessarily entail "acidic". From the left side of the room, Patrick sat at the end of the table with a ph meter dipped into his cup of coffee, as focused as a doctor listening in on his stethoscope to the beating of a heart. He listed the following acidity levels for the sake of comparison: stomach juice-- 1; lemon juice-- 2 to 3; Panama-- 5.28; El Salvador-- ? A point emphasized and re-emphasized by the chef of the house was that the beans for the cupping were roasted lightly enough to expose the faults of the bean, but also dark enough to expose the beauty of the bean. He dipped his hand into the pile of roasted beans, lifted and let them run through his fingers as he spoke of their beauty.

Afterward, I, along with Ben and Patrick hopped in for a ride back with Ell (the other El), who dropped us off at our respective homes. We found ourselves driving into Headhouse Square. What a beautiful place at dusk. Hoagies for dinner.

How Many Cups?

This evening at the Rittenhouse cafe, I served three girls decked out in head scarves and bedazzling outfits from Forever 21. The one in pink was from Baghdad; the other two from Tunisia and Morocco.

The three bedazzling ladies sat down at a table in the corner in front of the bar and began giggling like schoolgirls as Bart fell yet again into his hysterical "tragic laughter" state-- the one in which you can't tell if he is laughing or weeping. I was sure he was actually weeping this time until he pointed at Pedro and said that he was "very funny".

I had to agree with Bart this evening: Pedro was very funny. Today, Pedro chose the wrong time to trash talk to me and ended up with cappuccino all over his jeans. That was very funny. Then later during clean-up, we started swinging between the bar counters for fun, and in the blink of an eye, he was on the ground. That was also very funny, but only because he was unhurt.

I introduced the Deaf Elephant to both him and John this evening. They threw cups at me in return. Then they gave an observing customer a cup to throw at me too. Hence, I had three cups thrown at me today total. Paper cups, not the ceramics from Italy.

Day 10 of the Year 2012

I followed the full-ish moon to work; orange lilies lit up my workspace.

-what are ram horns? handlebar moustache turned upside-down; equivalently: what is a handlebar moustache? ram horns turned upside-down
-at the espresso bar: a calligraphy session with the two young, bubbly doctors-to-be; a discussion on the science of baking cheez-its with a crossword puzzling pastry chef
-a word in the English language with three of the same letter in a row: (a) does not exist; (b) "oooh!"
-Day 2 of this week's challenge: go to a dance class every day for 7 days straight. Screw the healthy balance; I embrace my obsession.
-I saw the date "January 8, 2012" printed on an online article; it took me a couple seconds to realize that this date was not in the science fiction-y future. Woah...From now on, we're livin' in the future!

Day 6 of the Year 2012

-crashed a classics conference at the Marriott: in which I discovered chaîne opératoire and listened to a scholar talk about Planet of the Apes
-with Mini Millar, built a cuppyramid, and then an even bigger cuppyramid, and then an even bigger cuppyramid with an alligator moat which was then destroyed by the longest yell in history: in which I was all the while fascinated by the little engineer's obsession with the one particular form, which he built over and over again, utterly in the zone; in which the little engineer christened me "Crane-kay"
-inflamed by acer negundo, aka, box elder tree, whose wood turns brilliant streaks of red when attacked by borers like the ambrosia beetle
-took Juniper Street, the back alley route home; considered that calligraphy, flower arranging, and ornate sculpting of building facades require a similar mindset in their undertaking
-overdosed on darling clementines and put Mozart piano sonatas on repeat

Today, Bart told me that Russian was the language of Hell.

Osama, smarty that he is, asked: "What's the language of heaven?"

"Hebrew," was the prompt reply of the Messianic Schizophrenic Jew.

"What about Arabic?" countered Osama, who is Palestinian.

"Uhhh huh huh..."

"Uhhh huh huh..." echoed Rad from behind the bar.

For once, Bart was the less crazy of the crazy customers I encountered today at work. Oh La Colombe.

With regards to the crazier one: When one customer pisses you off, but a half-dozen others plus your co-workers back you up, you come out feeling good about humanity despite that one crazy loon. I feel buoyed. What I don't have in money, I have in friends. Nothing to complain about.

And speaking of...what does money smell like?

Day 2 of the Year 2012

A day off...

-watched Titanic at 6 in the morning
-tried not to weep over the fleeting nature of love and life
-broke my fast with nachos; ate grapes for dinner

Day 1 of the Year 2012:

-wake up, shower, and put on a tuxedo dress and black tie; but forget on purpose the creepy moustache
-serve coffee to dozens at the City Hall cafe; escape before the mummers get too obnoxious
-serve coffee to hundreds at the Rittenhouse cafe; chase them out at the closing hour with '90s techno hits
-take Broad Street path home and wonder at the chaos on the streets: trash everywhere, everywhere the stench of alcohol, drunken revelers on foot in droves; everywhere the flashing of blue and red cop lights
-come home, put food into stomach, decompress; consider watching Titanic; I cannot explain this sudden urge, nor shall I try to fight it

New Glasses

Good morning, world! The world is clear. Smooth wine red and sky blue frames circle the cuts of glass through which I see you now.

Clearance

After nearly two months of attempting to understand, accommodate, and excuse our neighbors across the street from the Dilworth cafe, the three of us who were working this morning stood outside the shop just before opening, as the sky grew light. B. held a cigarette in his hand, A. a mug of drip coffee, and I a single espresso. We stared at the empty cement plaza across the street which, up until one o'clock this morning, had held dozens and dozens of tents occupied by a peculiar, hygienically-challenged alien race.

As I had rounded the corner to Dilworth Plaza this morning, I had been greeted by an incredible sight of what appeared to be the entire Philadelphia police force surrounding this former tent city. Police cars lined up ass to nose, buses filled with riot police, a helicopter in the sky, workers (surprisingly not dressed in hazmat suits) clearing up the last scraps of tent and the last bit of the 27 tons of trash that had accumulated since October 6th. But not a single one of those smelly squatters remained.

The pastry man, along with the first two of our customers of the day showed up, so I headed in first. The other two followed suit soon after. A. did a quick bathroom check, dusted off his hands, and declared optimistically, "Yo! From now on, bathroom gonna be OK!" (Translation: No more clogged toilets, blood on the floor, overflowing trash, extreme BO, or lines that run longer than the line for coffee!)

What have I to say at the end of all this? I have learned that whoever you are, your politics means nothing to me. It says nothing to me automatically about what kind of person you are, or how you treat others. Politics is so superficial. It's so easy to hold up a set of political beliefs on a sandwich board and pretend that it defines you in any way, but now I know better. Don't bother telling me whether you are a Democrat or a Republican, investment banker or starving artist, of the 99% or the 1%. In my shop, I will see for myself whether your are courteous and kind and know how to flush a toilet.

My Community

Today, I met a girl named Messiana who taught Jazz-U-Up classes at a local gym. I told her she should go by 'Messi'. "Why?" she asked. I told her it would make her famous and that she would even find her name graffiti-ed all over the walls of Northern Iraq. How can she not go by this name?

Mila came in today with a crown of flowers in her hair. I miss her coming into the shop in her pajamas and dangling from her tummy over the chair, experimenting with flight. Later, Gilda came in with her daughter to drop off biscotti. I could not decide who was cuter-- the mother or the daughter. I bought butterfly stickers at CVS after work for these girls and all the other adorables that come into the shop. Too many to count; too cute for words.

Last but not least, I learned a new word today: boughetto. Something or someone that pretends to be rich and fancy but is actually ghetto. Or is it the other way around: someone who pretends to be ghetto but is actually bougie? A point-of-interest: both the parent word (bourgeouis) and the derived word (boughetto) carry the connotation of phoniness, of pretending to be "better" than you really are.

I continue to try to make my customers feel comfortable at the bar. This is key to becoming a great barista. Does he look harried? Tired? Overenergetic? Sad? Distraught? Bored? People come up to the bar in various mental states, so you can't treat them all the same. However, you can aim to make each one feel comfortable as they order their coffee.

In the evening, I put on my alter ego attire-- a leotard, tights, and ballet slippers-- and headed over to ballet class. Along the way, I ran into the Red-Eye Winker (his drink is a red-eye, and he gives a friendly wink every time he orders). We both stood under our giant black umbrellas and doffed our imaginary hats at each other. He's just as silly as I am!

What this job does not give me in dollars, it gives me a hundred times over in the sense of community. When you have a whole community of friendly faces to run into in the streets of your neighborly city, nothing can bother you for too long.

As a La Colombe barista, I have a front row view of the tents occupying Dilworth Plaza, 6 hours a day, 4 days a week. It is interesting to be caught in in the middle of this movement physically and ideologically. Our second shop being located in the city's financial and government district, many of my "clients"-- the people to whom I serve their daily coffee-- are the very people whom the protesters are fighting against. I can't say whether they are part of the top wealthy 1%, but for sure they are not what I would call "middle class". Of course, our clientele is not limited to those who make banks, but they do make up a noteworthy portion.

Lately, however, we have had a great influx of clientele from the tents. In the beginning, they came in primarily to clean themselves up and piss in a proper toilet, but upon realizing that this was our livelihood, they started checking out our coffee as well. The exchange is often rather strange and awkward-- they come in already apologetic, perhaps holding up a cup they had purchased earlier in the day, head toward the bathroom asking in expression more than words if it's okay to use it. Some just head directly to the bathroom without making eye contact. Some act like normal customers and human beings, which is a welcome relief.

Yesterday, a mother took her daughter into the bathroom. I heard water running, then the hand dryer blowing, then suddenly a scream that carried throughout the cafe. For a millisecond, I was extremely worried, then realized the little girl was screaming with delight at how funny the air felt as it blow-dried her hair. I wondered if she was one of the children caught up in this movement unwittingly, forced to live in a plastic playhouse among the tents while their parents alternately stand proudly with their signs and ideologies, then turn around and break up tearful fights among one another's babies.

This evening, 5 minutes before closing time, an occupier gave a purposeful start when I offered her plastic cups for the water she had requested. She then proceeded to give an unsolicited explanation for why she "made a face" when I offered her the cups. "You see, I'm a person who recycles all the time..." I didn't need to hear this, and I can't say that I took it with grace. I have no patience for self-righteous, condescending, holier-than-thou attitudes, and it made me want to take a bulldozer over all those tents out there. It took me a few minutes in the back kitchen to remember that neither she, nor the mother with the screaming child, nor the awkward sidlers wholly represented the population of Occupy Philly.

For the most part, from poor students to the multimillionaires, our regular customers appear to acknowledge the occupation, but not bother themselves much over it. They have their own lives to lead which is to study, work, take care of their children, and other such responsibilities. As for me, as an American citizen officially categorized as being below the poverty line, I am caught between wanting to support a movement that fights against the injustices of Corporate America, and being wholly unable to identify with the type of people who are actually involved in the movement at the grassroots level.

Big Picture

Life is bigger than a Netflix price-hike. It is bigger, even, than the biggest argument or most long-standing grudge. Every problem comes with a choice: to care or not to care. It is a hazard to care too much, as much as it is a hazard to care too little. There is no right or wrong approach; just choice and consequence. Impressions are far from immutable: given enough time, most things are forgotten, fade into unimportance, are altered, or replaced. Evolution is inevitable for anything that is not trapped in some literal or figurative amber. The blue of a blue sky is never felt with such intensity as when change is imminent-- a move, a voyage, or on a dramatic scale, a death. Clouds are a beautiful, amazing planetary phenomena-- acres and acres of crimped and wispy shapes scattered across that incredible blue, reflected in the glass of the tallest city buildings, soaring out from between drab and dingy abandoned structures, and illuminated gold by the rising morning sun. To think of clouds and stars is a good and faithful reminder of the briefness of one's time on this planet, a reminder of the relative unimportance of most things we consider to be important. Answers, explanations, curiosities, the beautiful, the strange and the wondrous are readily discovered when the mind is fully present and ready to receive: be still, look, listen, consider the stars, and suddenly, the blue sky will leave you breathless.

A Motivation for Making Images

“For Caravaggio, making images is a way of focusing the mind. To paint something is to isolate it for the purposes of contemplation.” ~Andrew Graham-Dixon, Caravaggio: A Life Sacred & Profane

Whimsical Meandering

Carter is tiny, and bald, with the most expressive eyebrows; she must be the happiest baby in the world. Does she know this? Her and her mother's daily visit to the coffeeshop makes my day. What else makes my day? Working with G makes me realize that you can never run out of things to say about poop and farts. This is amazing.

Ballet today: Every class at Symmetry is a craft. The Lakme Flower Duet beckons me into class from the foyer. I try my best to commit each exercise to memory. It is surprisingly doable this second time. I think that I don't like to smile in ballet class. To me, ballet is a noble and stoic art form and it seems incongruous and not genuine to paste on a smile for an imagine audience. Did the Spartan soldiers smile in warfare, rigid training and weary marches?

After class, I skip out on pointe class in order to write out each exercise from memory into my sketchbook. I feel very much like a student, a very serious student. I am driven by the knowledge that nothing good lasts forever; I am in a rush to become an independent ballerina. As I write out my notes, I suddenly consider trying to become a real ballerina. Later I wonder what does this mean, to be a "real" ballerina? Is performance what separates the student from the professional? But I already perform in the streets. Perhaps I am already a ballerina, and I have made the world my stage. Ooh! An idea blooms...A long terms project...every year a new stage...this year Russia...next year...

There is hope yet for my studio.

After ballet, I stop by the bookstore on the way home and read Harold and the Purple Crayon at the low wooden table. Oh Harold! He reminds me of Carter, so bald and whimsical. He creates his own world just like I create mine.

A Forgotten Feat

Ha! On this day last year, I made my first latte leaf. Thanks for the reminder, facebook. What I have learned since then is that:

--there is more than one pouring technique that works

--the way a barista pours his latte art is somewhat reflective of his personality

--the push that urges the foam out is the same physical mechanism as when the car comes to a sudden, abrupt halt and your body continues, or is thrown forward

An amazing occurrence at work today: I inherited a turtle ring from a stranger. "Can you write me into your will for that ring?" I joked. A few more jokes and comments about the ring's origin, then a slight hesitation, and suddenly she was taking it off and giving it to me. The last time I experienced this sort of generosity from strangers was many times over in Kurdistan, when mothers and grandmothers would give me the scarf off their heads, and their little girls would give me cheap jewelry they'd bought at the bazaar.

This time, the gift is not so cheap-- an original from the Urban Outfitter headquarters, given to her by her ex, and now passed on to her barista. The particulars: Its silver head and legs wobble, and its back is studded with emeralds. It fits too loosely on all the fingers of my left hand, but once squeezed past my freakishly large right thumb knuckle, it remains snug and safe. Dr. Gashu saw the entire scene while he waited to order his daily cappuccino. "Did you guys really just meet?" Yup...yes indeed.

A funny occurrence at work today: I wore my new newsgirl hat with a sidelong bow, which I picked up at a Payless in New York City on Saturday, and it drew several independent comments about Chairman Mao. I tell them I am getting into the spirit of the Communist Era, in preparation for my trip to Russia. I realize I know next to nothing about Chairman Mao. So much to learn, so much to read, so little time to do it all.

The dynamic at the cafe today was strange: eerily quiet for the first hour or two, despite the gorgeous, perfect 80-degree weather outside, then finally the buzz of conversation began as a couple of regulars congregated in front of the bar. Behind the bar, I experienced one of the smoothest operations yet as I worked the register and John manned the machines for the first three hours.

Jeremiad: A Debbie Downer On Steroids, in Writing

A jeremiad is a "long, literary work which bitterly laments the state of society and its morals, and moreover prophesies its imminent downfall."

Assignment #6: Write a jeremiad. Preliminary exercise to this assignment: get seriously pissed off.

Pesto Roots

I'm making OG pesto tonight! Ingredients for OG pesto:

(a) pistillum (Latin)=>pestel (Old French)=>pestle (English).
(b) pistillum (Latin)=>pestare(Italian)=>pesto (Italian/English).
(c) Originally, a mortar and pestle was used to make pesto.

Note: The word pestle came before pesto since the former had to exist to make the latter. But they originate from the same Latin root.

Update from the kitchen:

The smell wafting out of the mortar is divinely basil-ic. The smashed basil swimming in its own juices looks like a home-made facial. I would like to slather it all over my face, but I shall resist.

Slow Sundays

Sundays at the new cafe are like a La Colombe playgroup for kids 3 and under. Today I caught an origami bird for one of them (the one that comes in every morning barefoot, hair disheveled, and still in her pajamas). Her mother loved it more than she did. Sparrows are deceptively sweet looking; in reality very vicious creatures who attack butterflies and damage their wings. Sundays at the new cafe is also like watching the Nature Channel through the huge ceiling to floor windows. As much as I love to work mindlessly making and serving coffee, I enjoy the slow Sundays for now. The new cafe is an airy haven of peace for families and visitors from out of town, here for conferences and weddings. Also notes of worth from this morning's shift: a chair sitting instead of being sat on, a wounded spider who came into the air-conditioned cafe to pass the last hour of its life, and the dear Ethiopian doctor who had been on my mind lately for the lack of his presence.

Cold-Brew Coffee

A couple weeks ago, I decided to jump on the toddy bandwagon and experiment with cold-brewed coffee. I soaked coarsely ground Haitian Blue Forest beans in my French Press overnight, then pressed it twice and poured the resulting liquid into a pitcher. I let it sit in my fridge for the next few days mostly because I forgot about it. Too many things going on.

Now that I am moving house, I re-discovered it while in "throw-away mode" and finally tasted it-- straight up, without diluting it with water. I caught a whiff of it just before the first sip, and frowned-- not because it smelled bad, but because it smelled oddly familiar. After a couple more sips, I realized why, and here's my initial verdict on cold-brewed coffee concentrate:

It tastes like a mild form of the Korean/Chinese herbal medicine called hanyak. I used to hate that stuff growing up. They really shouldn't tell kids that what they're drinking contains deer antlers, tortoise shells, and dried up insects. I much prefer this milder coffee variety, though it might not contain the same healing powers.

Baked Ziti on the Fly

What is "Baked Ziti On The Fly"? It is the taking of the technique used in making traditional baked ziti, and adapting it to whatever ingredients you have on hand. One must not plan to make Baked Ziti on the Fly; one must become inspired to make it On The Fly, preferably at 7 in the am when the house is still quiet.

-sauce: Leonardo e Roberto's garlic basic parmesan dipping oil, which your roommate bought at a flower show over a year ago and left in the house when she moved to Nashville; LeR's sundried tomato dipping oil; half cup of milk for some semblance of 'sauciness'; minced garlic; salt; onion powder; crushed dried chili pepper from Indian grocery; an egg. Saute garlic and oils first; cool mixture with cold milk before tossing in the egg; toss in extra garlic if you are of Korean descent
-penne (meaning 'feather' or 'quill') pasta leftover from previous pasta cooking endeavor (vodka penne), cooked less than al dente
-frozen broccoli for extra nutrition; toss in with boiling penne
-old pancetta wrapped in foil that you scrutinize and end up tossing into the bin because old meat is a health risk
-fresh rosemary; forget to put this in
-order in the pan: cooking spray, pasta, sauce, extra onion powder; parm cheese to heart's content, bread crumbs; bake at 375 degrees Fahrenheit until it looks and tastes good to you; forget to cover with aluminum foil
-use other baked ziti cheeses (mozzarella, ricotta, etc.) and spaghetti sauce only if you have them on hand
-mourn the lack of sriracha sauce

Counting My Blessings

Today was a good day. It thundered. It rained; it poured. I got to work with my barista mentor and we actually got to hustle a few times, though the line was never anywhere near what it is at the old shop...yet. I bantered with an SNL comedian. I got to make lovely latte leaves and nerdy math jokes to the young professionals who walked in wearing graph-shirts. I fell asleep in mid-afternoon to the sound of thunder clapping and rain dripping down to my bathroom floor. I slipped of course, but did not fall. I got to wear my purple rain boots. I got to pay my toddler friend a visit in her carseat. The car door opened. "Elsa, look what daddy found! Who is this Elsa?" The toddler spoke my name and kicked her feet excitedly in the air. I'm honored to be part of her relatively vast, yet limited vocabulary. I got to go to a Friday afternoon ballet class and have a real talk with my ballet mentor. Half-price sandwiches and a funny book at Capogiro's. And still the rain comes down hard, pelting and rushing. I get to be inside on a night like this. The scar on my right eyelid is healing nicely; I no longer look like a character out of Starship Enterprise, or whatever that show was called. I was never a tried-and-true trekky.

Parnassus on Wheels

"But books aren't a substantial world after all, and every now and then we get hungry for some closer, more human relationships." ~Parnassus on Wheels by Christopher Morley

One could replace the word "books" with "ballet" and that sentence would neatly encapsulate the conclusion I arrived at after months of being in love with ballet. There was a time when I believed adamantly that I needed nothing else. After a time, however, I found I was using it as a means to fill the void left by my solitary ways. As I came to realize, one type of love cannot replace another. There is love of objects, love of ideals, and then there is love of other beings like myself, and only one of these three can reciprocate.

Happiness: When I am working, I am brimming with energy. When I'm lying in bed, I am restless. When little Elsa comes for her daily visit, my day brightens. When I am practicing Russian, my day feels less wasted. I could migrate to a remote region of the Himalayas and meditate on a mountainside for the next five years, but it is incomprehensible to me that such a distance from the world and its inhabitants would bring me internal peace, but perhaps this is so because I am un-Enlightened. On the other hand, when I am in the ballet studio, sweating and working the muscles, I feel happier and more centered and focused. I feel we are born to work and sweat. I get excited when I'm making big plans for the future. I live for the presumably greater future. Happiness is associated with peace, yet all the striving that brings me these good feelings is rife with hard work and fatigue. And good feelings never last forever. I can't lie in bed forever. Sometimes not even for a normal period of sleep. But after days and days of restlessness and striving, all that weight will come down on me and I can finally sleep and sleep and sleep. Who decided that a normal day cycle would last 24 hours? Neither my brain nor my body functions at such regular intervals.

However, regularity may be exactly the medicine I need. It occurs to me that the rhythm achieved behind the bar by automated, repetitive, coordinated action could be achieved on a larger scale and bring me a similar sense of happiness outside of work. Getting into the swing of things on a larger scale. I think this is the idea behind ritual: repetitive actions that bring about a certain dynamic and meaning to daily life. Yet, I think the greatest happiness comes from when that dynamic is shared with another human being. Ballet is not enough, a career is not enough, books are not enough because as stated above, none of these activities, no matter how much they are driven by ideals and passion, can reciprocate basic human emotions. I am, without a doubt, a social animal. Not everyone is.

Musings of a Barista

I got six shifts this week! Time to rest up so I can be present with my customers. A year later, I still have to remind myself to take it easy, take it slow. I'm too much like a tornado...too many crazy weekend shifts that made me think that that was the norm. Watching the new hires who work so slowly and methodically, I realize that this is where I can get better, where I can develop an eye for detail.

A year into the coffee business, I find myself wondering how much of my views on the politics and philosophies surrounding the coffee industry are my own, and how much are those of my beloved company. Most of the coffee philosophy that I hear from my bosses seem utterly sensible. They are of the old world of coffee: when it was just a cup of joe, not the Holy Grail of Josephus; when an espresso was an elegant affair, not a cosmic explosion; when options were available, but not overwhelming. There is such a thing as too many choices.

As well, I don't believe in putting on airs where airs don't belong. Coffee enhanced my life a thousand-fold when it was introduced to me through this barista job. It gave me ritual-- an act that develops meaning through repetition--, it gave me an appreciation for the complexities of taste, and it attuned me to the possibilities of beauty contained in ingestible products-- beauty contained in a cup. Yet, as much as coffee has given me this past year, to me, it is still a product of the Earth and not a nectar of the gods, and for me to treat and serve it as such would be pure hyperbole and downright pretentious.

As a barista, I have made espresso a regular part of my daily life. I take a shot before almost every shift, partly so I can know my product and develop a palate over time, and partly for the sake of ritual. This is to say that I do believe the nuances exist, but number one: they are detectable by the human senses only to an extent, and that extent varies with each individual, can be developed, but takes time to develop, and number two: the ability to detect the nuances and describe them with flair has become a great big show of (mostly false) intellect, which I don't particularly care for. I did not leave the stuffy, recondite world of academia only to enter another high-brow, elitist coffee-stained ivory tower. Making coffee is a craft full of aesthetics and nuances. What it is not: a high art that is comprehensible only to the very learn-ed and designed to alienate the masses.  As a barista at La Colombe, I am happy to work for a company that does its best to tamp down such high-brow inclinations. What I hear from my boss-- in his albeit brash and theatrical way-- aligns with my own internal inclination towards simplicity and down-to-earthiness.

What else, what else? Coffee gave me a rich history to study, a field for the observation of human nature in a most interesting setting, and best of all, it gave me great co-workers. Of all the people I have met through this job, I have found the ones on my side of the bar to be the most interesting to study, perhaps because I have the privilege of working alongside them in such close quarters. If you are stuck in a tiny room with one other person for 6 hours at a time, and moreover are working in concert with them, it is difficult not to pick up on the deepest aspects of their character. But these are stories for a private audience.

As I stepped behind the register for the first time last June, I experienced for the first time rapid-fire service that put me in varying mental states from automaton to "there, but not really there". I experienced what it felt like to work as a team and fall into a rhythm that required less words and more eye contact and intuition to make it swing. I learned the importance of confidence and pride in one's work. I learned from the best-- by watching my colleagues-- the ones I call the "Classic Crew"-- and picking out the best aspects of each of their work-habits and trying to make them my own. I've learned that even behind this bar, we are not immune to disagreement, tension, competition, and the usual bullshit that surrounds work settings, and it doesn't matter whether it is mostly guys or mostly gals. Each gender has his or her own way of manifesting irritating behaviors and creating "drama". However, if the proper measures are taken, this job has the most uncanny ability to mask the negatives and bring out the greatest aspects of a barista's personality. I think I believe this anyway. I have faith.

Going back to the issue of coffee philosophy, what is coffee to me, a server of this prized and ubiquitous substance? It is in its spirit of communion, a drink that brings people together for conversation with ease, efficiency, and elegance; in its spirit of solitude, a drink that brings comfort to cold, sleepy mornings, or even to hot afternoons and evenings.

What Kinds of People Do You Enjoy Meeting?

I like to meet people who know things that I don't know.
I also like to meet people who know things that I know.
As well, I like to meet people who want to know things that I know.
And lastly, I like to meet people who want to know things that I want to know.
Know what I mean?

The Expectations of Youth

I learned yesterday that once you stop caring, that is when you have grown up. The reasons why you stop caring are very good-- to protect yourself from disappointment, or worse; to come to terms with a grim reality that repeatedly fails to live up to your expectations.

It is probably a smart move in terms of Darwinian fitness-- a defense mechanism similar to the turtle donning its shell over the course of evolution.

Apathy is a very grown up state of mind. Acceptance of "reality" and the "inevitable" is a grown up skill to acquire. On the other hand, trying again and again to make reality accept your own ideal-- that is youth. It is naive, and touching, and unfortunately a paradise lost for many...a paradise regained for some.

I learned this yesterday from watching a movie called Submarine.

Schedule Change

Tonight marks the end of the Serbian-Korean weekend team at LC, for another major shift in scheduling is impending. I'm excited about the long-awaited opening of the new cafe, and the notion of fresh beginnings. However, sudden schedule shifts are always a bittersweet affair because one has to say goodbye to the camaraderie that has grown over the months of working side by side behind the bar. Will I be able to find the same sweet rhythm with the next person I end up working with? I wonder. I respond to myself in true "yes and no" fashion: I usually do find a sweet rhythm, but it is never the same one.

Russian "moy" versus "menya"

Dear Angie,

Both "moy" and "menya" are translated as "my" in English. Here are two ways to think of how they are different:

(1) moy receives a noun (ie: it is an adjective), while menya receives a verb

(2) moy is a possessive pronoun (which can be further classified as either nominative or accusative), while menya is a personal pronoun (which can be further classified as either accusative or genitive).

Regards,

Angie

Sweet & Sour Encounter

I woke up thinking about the baby that spit up on me yesterday. That's good luck, you know, to be spitted up on by a baby, especially one named after President Kennedy. I am destined for great things. Or a great thing. She had the teeniest nails and a toothless mouth that opened wide into a gaping, black triangle shape with soft corners. She could do amazing acrobatics with her tongue-- the tongue seems to be the easiest part of your body to control in the beginning.

The Tongue of the Enemy

Today, I met an Italian-Albanian who knew 5 languages including Serbian. Learn the language of your enemy, is what his father had taught him, literally. But how likely is it that the enemy of the son will be the same as the enemy of his father? A lot can happen politically in a single generation. However, I've always wanted a reason to learn Japanese.

Two Days Before Opening

I just pulled my first shot of espresso at the new cafe at 15th between Chestnut and Market Streets. We'll be doing a slow un-grand opening Saturday morning at 8 am. Until then, last minute tweaks are being made. The health inspector came by today and made her rounds. I watched as Andrew the Handrewman sanded down a rough edge, made measurements for extra metal linings, and installed shelves in the kitchen/office (strangely, the same space). Half of Andrew was Serbian, I learned. Coincidentally, I'd just read that morning of Mladic's arrest, and so upon mentioning this breaking bit of news, I got to hear a personal account of murder, nationlessness, religious schisms and the like in the south Slavic region.

"Serbians are rednecks," said Andrew. I could thoroughly believe that. I thought of my Serbian co-worker's untamed nature, and rapt accounts of his hunting expeditions like the time he got *this* close to a litter of baby foxes. The other half of Andrew was Mexican, which showed up in his dark wavy hair and tanned skin. In fact, the only hint in his features of his European ancestry was the color of his eyes-- a clear sea green like the color of the ceramics that will be served at the soon-to-open Chicago location. I thought it would be marvelous if the walls of the Chicago shop-- with the ostensible reason of matching the ceramics-- were painted the color of his eyes, and I told him so.

"The only problem with the green," he returned, "is that the wood floors pick up on the color of the walls." That was when I first noticed the slight orange glow of the blonde wood floor of our new cafe. Wow...I wondered how many times our future customers would cross these floors and never pick up on this subtle detail. I certainly would not have. Details...I needed to get better at noticing them.

I watched Doug from New York make some masterful cappuccinos on the new Marzocco espresso machine. It was time to get my ass to New York to get some training from him. I've gotten too complacent about making drinks I think. There is a difference between good and excellent in drink-making. When people talk about you in the following fashion: "I've had great cappuccinos from other baristas, but there's something about the way you make it..."; when people can't quite put their finger on why yours is so amazing, but they just know it when they drink it; when the quality of your drink is so good that it is elusive, that's when you've reached excellence as a barista. Until then, one is still in training.

"I can't wait to pick out the Table where we're going to sit every morning drinking our coffee." That was Gus.

"'The Table'?" I asked. "Ohhhh, the Table!"

It hadn't even occurred to me that the Table at the Rittenhouse cafe had been chosen. I'd never questioned how we had come to sit there every morning before opening, in the dark with only the kitchen light on, enjoying our cups of coffee and the last 15 minutes of peace before the onslaught. From my first morning shift, I'd always felt that those 15 minutes were the best part of the entire day. No matter how the day went, you were never going to reclaim the experience-- the same quiet, the same intimacy, and the same freshness felt from 6:45 to 7 am. By the time your shift ends, 6 hours later, you will feel like a completely different person-- ragged, expended, perhaps out of sync or angry at something or another, shirt stained with coffee, hair reeking of its aroma-- and that golden quarter hour will be as if it had never happened, as if it had been a lifetime away, even though it was only 6 hours ago.

"Yeah, don't choose the Table without me!" I reminded him as we parted ways, "I want to be there and help you choose!"

Placebo Schmacebo

Caffeine is magical-- and I'm not saying that just because I'm a barista! A double shot espresso will bring me out of a morass of lethargy and pessimism to a rejuvenated bundle of optimism-- from a near-catatonic state of lassitude to a state of mental clarity and drive!...in a matter of minutes. Nothing short of black magic.

While working behind the bar, I often think of my kindergarteners. That is, the task of taking care of my grown up customers to their satisfaction often reminds me of taking care of my 5-year-olds (who will be going into grade 2 this fall-- oh my...and my grade 2's will be huge 5th graders--oh my...). Especially in the way some of them interrupt without consideration, feel wounded to the core when I accidentally skip past them in line (my bad!), and seek special attention of which I can only give so much at a time-- especially then I think of my kindergarteners. Sometimes, I see very little difference between those to whom I served an education, and those to whom I serve coffee. In both age groups, this sort of behavior is at once endearing and maddening.

Akin to the feeling I had at the end of the teaching year in Iraq, though to a lesser degree, is this feeling I have now that I will miss many of the faces I have come to know since last June when I served my first coffee at the flagship store at Rittenhouse Square. Though I will be working a mere 5 blocks away at our new Ritz-Carlton location, I know that 5 blocks in the city can be a great distance especially to the heavily habitual folks who frequent my coffeeshop. "People are creatures of habit," to quote my Serbian co-worker. They get the same drink every day for years. You can work there for years and memorize everyone's drinks, then leave for 2 years, come back, and that list of drinks will have undergone little alteration. Miss Julia will still get her cappuccino (and dress like Mrs. Peacock in the Billiard Room with the Candlestick), Miss Susanna her half-milk-half-coffee au lait, Fancy Nancy her mostly milk au lait, Mr. Koresh his red-eye, the three dark-haired men who get Americanos for "here" every day and linger for hours in solitude over their work, the silver-haired, suited gentleman who looks extraordinarily like Sean Connery and stands at the side of the bar every day drinking his espresso and giving off heady waves of his customized cologne from Paris, the younger man who also takes an espresso every day (and takes a regular drip coffee to-go as well), who aims to emulate the classiness of the Sean Connery espresso drinker, sexy Nataliya who gets a cappuccino in a paper cup every day between hairstyling sessions, the spinal surgery man who gets a double-cupped black coffee and a decaf for his pregnant wife, the parents of Elsa...and so on. The penniless artist will still be there laughing one minute and weeping the next, and you still won't be able to tell which is which because they will both still sound the same; old Bill will still come up to the bar and share with you random facts about high art and the same 4 phrases in Greek that he knows. The scraggly old woman will still sit alone in her corner scribbling code in the margins of her little notebook for hours on end. The other day, she was sitting right over the edge of the side of the bar, and so while pretending to clean, I leaned over and tried to see exactly what she was scribbling, but I couldn't make out anything sensible-- or perhaps I mean to say "sane". Christ...sometimes, I don't know how to feel about this time capsule nature of the shop-- whether to feel suffocated by its unflagging invariance, or adore it for its timelessness.

Yesterday after work, I bought groceries for my big cooking endeavor (vodka penne) and had to rest my arms on the way home. While sitting on a brick ledge in the hot sun, I saw one of my customers coming my way-- Joel, the very sweet Rittenhouse Market grocer who gets a cup to-go every day. We were neighbors, it turned out; he lived a mere two blocks away from my house. A short while later, he was giving me a tour of his very narrow and tall abode that was more like a treehouse than a house in the city. It had three stories with a narrow spiraling staircase that led to each one. The rooms were of modest size and the entire place had the air of an era gone by, nearly vanished or at most pushed into the peripheries and dusty, aging, slowly forgotten corners of this world, in this age of wireless and constant bombardment of high-tech noise. There was no wifi, no internet at all, no computer, no cell phone. What he did have was books and paintings. He was a local painter. On his walls hung huge canvases of industrial scenes around Philadelphia, some which no longer even exist. On the third floor was his work space and the walls in here were lined from top to bottom and side to side with hundreds of magazines-- the canary yellow spines of National Geographic filling one entire wall, another half of a wall filled by the thinner, taller ivory-colored spines of Life Magazine, some of which dated back to WWII, another half of a wall dedicated to art books and the other half of that wall stacked with the classics he had read in college-- Solzhenitsyn, Sartre, Steinbeck, Tolstoy. If you know me at all...

He had a cat and he arranged his food like a grocery store. On top of his fridge was a very orderly pyramid of canned soups. Next to this pyramid was a very orderly stack of Kashi brand cereal. He opened his freezer and I burst out laughing. The inside was packed with frozen tv dinners, all of the same brand-- the one with the bright orange colored box. His great (great-great?) grandfather had been in the grocery business. His uncle and several others in his family had also been painters. He was a man who faithfully carried on his family's traditions.

I walked out of his house with my groceries, a host of new impressions, and a new book called "The Road", by Cormac McCarthy. I walked the two blocks home and thought how curious it all was. I walked one block toward my house and waved to a a blue-eyed, cherub-haired man waiting at the wheels of his black car with his window rolled down. He was my next-door neighbor and another regular at my shop-- a connection I discovered 10 months after I had been serving him his double cappuccino every morning.

Free Books

I'm giving away my books from now on after I read them (exceptions for reference-like books, epic tomes, and books with pretty pictures). Why? I do not like amassing too many things, so less than a month ago, I resolved to stop spending money on books, and to just read the ones I already own or ones lent to me. Well! Today, I just broke (read: shattered) that rule. So now I get to buy them, but must give them away after the reading.

It makes very little sense financially-- then again, I never claimed to have a good head for business. Quite the opposite, really. Existentially speaking (?), it makes me feel free...free from the bondage of money. When you do things for free, it means you can afford to. Although I am not rich, I am not dirt poor, and I can afford to do things here and there without worrying about how to get something green out of it. And besides, I like the idea of sharing/distributing my experiences in this way.

The Best Piss of My Waking Life

It is May 21st and the sinners are still as alive as the saints!

Since I am alive to tell the story, here it is:

Have you ever sat on a toilet and thought, I wonder if this is a dream...? Well...let me backtrack. Yesterday, I came home from ballet and was so hungry that I ate an entire pineapple. A real one, not canned, that I had experimentally sliced up in the Vietnamese tradition before leaving for class. That baby was so ready ripe that it was starting to mold on the bottom, was as yellow as jaundice, and tasted sugary sweet.

The consumption of an entire pineapple left me immobilized on the couch. I'd had plans to go to a birthday party, and that plan was nixed. My roommates invited me to join them at a bar called Public House, but I had to say no thanks. All I could do was lie on the couch and watch a Flight of the Conchords video and imagine an entire pineapple sitting in my stomach.

Eventually, I went upstairs to hit the shower and go to mattress (for those of you who don't know it, I don't have a bed-- just a twin-sized mattress, and just recently acquired bedsheets), fell asleep to an open book, and dreamed of pissing pineapple juice. A second after this dream, I had to go again, so I woke up, stumbled sleepily to the toilet, and had the best piss of my waking life.

So, in a condensed step-by-step list format,

How to have the best piss of your waking life:

(1) purchase a pineapple
(2) wait until it is ready ripe (signs of ready ripeness are a fresh, tangy island aroma every time you walk by the fruit, mold growing on the bottom, and the yellowness of jaundice)
(3) gut the pineapple in the Vietnamese tradition, creating a series of nice spiral formations where the eyelets were sliced away; use a super-sharp stainless steel showtime knife if you happen to have one on hand-- or something equally as sharp
(4) go to ballet
(5) come back from ballet starving
(6) eat the entire pineapple with a fork
(7) enter state of immobility; cancel all plans to move off the couch
(8) go to mattress
(9) dream of pissing pineapple juice
(10) wake up and stumble sleepily to the toilet
(11) make sure it is a real toilet, and not a dream one
(12) have the best piss of your waking life

Notes from 5/16/11

-work x2; watch Batman take down a pocketer of picks; coo at the happy cartoon baby who looks like he should have a purple crayon and be named Harold; feel overwhelming delight at seeing an old college friend in the shop; watch Serge perform heart surgery on the coffee brewer; machines can develop clogged arteries too; an aorta is but a pipe through which fluid flows
-chill out with Baxter the golden retriever; get Baxter hair all over my black capris, but forgive him his lovable amber eyes
-chill out with my Russian book, my russkaya kneega
-ballet x2; have an epiphany about the head's relation to the outstretched arm; help lead a ballet battalion

Charting motivation level (ML) would be an interesting self-study. ML is at a dangerously low level after a nap, and yet the nap is needed. ML never fails to surge after ballet-- whether in the form of a class or a warm-up en solitude. Today, I took my warm-up to the rooftop and while stretching on the splintery rails, spied on my neighbors below playing basketball. In fact, I couldn't see them-- only their hologramic reflections in the glass windows of the houses across the street. Will be sad to leave this house come August. ML at a steady high rate behind the bar, but during morning shifts, surges to an excessive rate around noon.